We are the cold product
of all our parents’ flaws,
trying to convince ourselves
that it isn’t all trite,
that there’s something worth saying.

I know all the love stories
have been rehashed
but what is left untold
is the variable you can’t convey,
sensation without logic
coming in waves
and in tiny pin pricks.
I still get choked up when I feel it.
I get choked up because of feeling that way.

Some would say to be human
is to be synonymous with imperfection.
I would say it’s something else too.
It’s the part of you
that has forgotten your existence,
the part of you that’s always pulling
in the same direction.
The madness doesn’t come from the stability
but from knowing you are mad.

To love is to forget yourself.
It is to forget your lover too.
It’s emotional trash.
Something most would care to leave on the curbside.
And yet some of us are starving
and would rather have what’s rotted
than the emptiness of our bellies.